


until what i love misses me

by newvision



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crowley Submits to the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known (Good Omens), Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, Lucky Charms as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Post-Canon, existential crisis in a supermarket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:41:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28047846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newvision/pseuds/newvision
Summary: The fact that Crowley had heard from Aziraphale every single day since the Apocalypse That Wasn’t should’ve been indication enough that things weren’t exactly the same as they were before. Crowley, however, had never really been known for his skills in observation, so perhaps this might be forgiven.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 96





	until what i love misses me

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written anything new in like a year and a half, and then for some reason this afternoon i sat down and finished this in one sitting (and then didn't proofread bc i got embarrassed) - all of which is to say, please be nice to me <3 also did it while listening to tolerate it by tswift on repeat so that probably tells you everything you need to know about this. 
> 
> there's also a mention of self-induced harm (burning, not graphically described), but i'll put [] as indicators of where to skip. 
> 
> title is from 'the back porch' by dorianne laux. 
> 
> support, either silent or vocal, is always appreciated!

The fact that Crowley had heard from Aziraphale every single day since the Apocalypse That Wasn’t should’ve been indication enough that things weren’t exactly the same as they were before. Crowley, however, had never really been known for his skills in observation, so perhaps this might be forgiven. 

Nevertheless - his phone rings every day, at just past noon, and he answers. This is not to say that he either expects or hopes for the calls to come. They just arrive perfectly enough to allow him to drag himself out of bed, slouch around with a coffee in hand for a half hour or so, and pick up a new baked good from Aziraphale’s favourite cafe before his phone starts buzzing. 

The angel, it seems, has been making his way down a list of human hobbies compiled over the past 100 years or so, and thinks it would be such a shame to engage in these alone, they’re  _ social _ activities after all, Crowley. Previous iterations had included: arranging a collection of stamps Aziraphale had somehow amassed over the past 200 years (they had spent an entire afternoon trying to peel them apart from one another, and Crowley was sure he’d ingested far more stamp glue than was good for him), an attempt at watercolour painting (neither of them had turned out to be the next Monet), and a binge of Tidying Up with Marie Kondo on Crowley’s Netflix account (which resulted in a rather horrific frenzy of dusting and a trip to the pharmacy for some Zyrtec). 

The introduction of Netflix to Aziraphale, by far, had been the most successful of their afternoon events as he’d - surprisingly enough - taken to it immediately. Crowley had always been the one more inclined towards television-watching, and a solid binge of a TV show could always be written off as a practice of slothfulness on his end. Aziraphale, however, had been delighted at the sheer wealth of shows available on the streaming platform and had gone to work clicking away, rifling through his options. Ever the connoisseur, he only picked what he knew he’d probably enjoy - as opposed to Crowley, who was far more likely to just stuff himself on whatever had been recommended to him by the algorithm on that day. At the very least, even the inane voices of the reality TV stars on his screen were sufficient to fill the silence in between the times he was called to see Aziraphale. 

As it turns out, the only show they’d somehow ended up watching together in quiet company was the Great British Bake Off. It had just enough reality TV drama to keep Crowley entertained, and more than enough artful baking to keep Aziraphale interested. Of course, that also meant that eventually, Crowley was invited over by Aziraphale to attempt making bread. Specifically, flower focaccia (introducing Aziraphale to Pinterest had also clearly been a mistake). 

“I thought we could make a day out of it,” Aziraphale was saying now, his voice tinny over the speakers as Crowley scrolled through yet another recipe the length of a masters dissertation. All he wanted to see was the ingredient list, and even that was already proving to be an uphill battle. “Get the ingredients from the supermarket. Cook dinner while we wait.” 

“Sounds great, angel. Pick you up from the shop?” 

“See you then.” 

  
  


The trip to the supermarket begins far more smoothly than Crowley thought it might. Aziraphale had picked out a design, had even fashioned a list of ingredients and what they’d be on the loaf, and had therefore sent him off with the task to look for rosemary, thyme, and capers whilst he picked up the remaining vegetables. They’d meet back at the cashier’s in 15 minutes. 

It sounded simple enough. Making his way through organised aisles of identical produce - which had certainly gotten more hygienic since the days of open-air bazaars - Crowley was fairly certain he knew where to go to get what he needed, and meet Aziraphale with time to spare. Unfortunately, he hadn’t accounted for the odd liminal quality of supermarkets which turned time viscous and syrupy, resulting in its shoppers wading through with trolleys overflowing with items they definitely didn’t need. Sighing, he’d started by attempting to find some kind of shortcut to the seasoning aisle, because  _ surely _ it couldn’t be that hard-- 

Only for it to be 15 minutes later, and for him to be standing with his mouth slightly open amongst aggressively coloured boxes of cereal with an empty basket in hand. 

“Great source of Vitamin D,” said the tiger mascot on one box, holding a spoon to a bowl full of cornflakes. “They’re Gr-r-reat!” Crowley wonders if Vitamin D is something he’s supposed to be getting. He’s not really a breakfast person. Or an eating person, at all. Barely even a person, if he was going to be accurate. Human-shaped at best, really. Aziraphale had always done a better job of playing the human bit, especially with the softer parts. He knew how to be around people, how to take care of them, even gently push them away if need be. Crowley couldn’t even make himself breakfast. 

He tears his attention away from the healthy tiger, knowing that there’s no use going down the winding path of that particular train of thought. He comes face-to-face with another box, just next to it. This time it’s a cheerful leprechaun, launching a sparkly series of colourful flakes in an arc overhead. The box proclaims that the colourful flakes are in fact, marshmallows. Crowley has never had a marshmallow. 

For some reason, this is the thought that makes his chest feel rather like someone had just punched a very neat hole through it. Even children were allowed marshmallows, albeit begrudgingly, from their parents. Obviously they wouldn’t be allowed to eat them every single day, but they were permitted pockets of sweetness every now and then. “As a treat,” as the humans liked to say. Indulgences made permissible out of love. 

Crowley has never had a marshmallow. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice interrupts him, so much closer to his ear than he’d expected that he very nearly jumps back several feet and narrowly avoids a display of what looks to be Oreo-flavoured cereal. Aziraphale merely blinks at him, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just that it’s been a half hour now and I couldn’t find you, so I figured I’d come look. In case you’d gotten lost.” 

“Right, sorry,” Crowley mutters. His basket is still empty. He can feel Aziraphale looking at it, from his face to the basket, eyes eventually wandering to the cereal displayed in endless lines before him. He lowers his eyes. His neck feels hot and ugly, and he has to fight the urge to just turn and stalk his way out of the supermarket, alone. 

“I thought I saw the herbs in the next aisle,” Aziraphale tells him, quieter this time. Offers his arm. “Shall we?” 

Crowley’s mouth goes dry with startling immediacy, so he nods. Carefully intertwines his arm with Aziraphale’s, watching himself so he doesn’t lean too much into it. They untangle themselves only when the time comes to make payment.

  
  


When they eventually return to the bookshop, they head upstairs. Adam had not only restored the bookshop, but managed to improve the little flat Aziraphale had occupied throughout his ownership of the bookshop. In place of its once tiny kitchen, it now boasted a space that came equipped with a much more modern oven, and cupboards full of plates decorated with tiny birds along their rims. Even the drawers had been filled with sparkling silver cutlery, which both he and Crowley had broken out if only to eat takeout from the Italian restaurant across the road. 

He sets the bag of groceries on the table, unpacking quietly as Aziraphale begins setting out the equipment - of which there is an enormous mixing bowl, the colour of robin’s egg blue. Something about the colour makes Crowley smile inadvertently, the tone of it a startling contrast against the general cream and gold colour scheme of the flat but somehow still of a gentle enough intensity to be associated with the angel. 

“What’s first?” he asks, breaking the comfortable silence of the apartment. 

“Dough first,” Aziraphale tells him, and he dutifully brings over their packets of yeast and sugar, along with the bag of flour. For this, Aziraphale awards him with a smile and a hand on his elbow. “You might want to roll up your sleeves for this one, dear.” 

**[]**

He does as he’s told, clumsily pushing the sleeves up his elbows to reveal tan forearms pockmarked only by a few old cigarette burns he’d kept as souvenirs from one of his favourite nights in the New York of the 1920s. Unfortunately, they don’t go unnoticed, and Aziraphale’s eyebrows furrow. 

“Who did that to you?” his voice has suddenly gone very quiet, much like it did in the supermarket. His hands have made their way to Crowley’s bare forearms, and Aziraphale touches him with such gentle reverence that he has to swallow the rising nausea in his throat. 

“I did,” he admits, and Aziraphale’s head shoots up so quickly Crowley very nearly stumbles out of his grasp again. “Not like that. It was in New York, in the 20s. I was just fooling around with some humans, and we’d somehow managed to start comparing our levels of pain tolerance and well...I got carried away.” 

“Clearly,” Aziraphale mumbles, brushing a thumb over one particularly deep circular scar. “You didn’t miracle them away.” 

“S’just for the memory,” Crowley mutters. “Nothing more.” 

Aziraphale finally looks up at him. Crowley dares not let himself believe that there’s concern in the angel’s gaze, lest it be indicative that he’s successfully ruined this evening for them. The golden rays of sun saturating the kitchen have somehow turned wrong, and now they make his eyes hurt. 

“Your sleeves,” Aziraphale mercifully interrupts his train of thought before it can spiral further. “Let me.” And then he does. Undoes the crumpled mess that Crowley has coerced them into. He folds them neatly, slotting each layer beneath the other until they are both at an equal length, resting comfortably just below his elbows. “There,” he smiles. “Now you won’t get flour on them.” 

**[]**   
  


The dough proves harder to make than the Bake Off contestants had led them to believe. 

For one, Aziraphale didn’t own a stand mixer, but kept insisting that they should do it “the human way” - ignoring the fact that the stand mixer was very much the human way in question. It was only after about 10 minutes of Crowley struggling to combine the flour with the olive oil and water as directed (“Seriously, angel, my arms are about to fall off,”) that Aziraphale had relented, and a stand mixer had conveniently been found in one of the cupboards. 

When they’d eventually extricated the significantly fluffier ball of dough from the mixing bowl, Crowley had attempted to perform the last minute or so of hand-kneading. Unfortunately, the dough was a lot tougher than it looked, and Crowley’s gentle - if not slightly terrified - hands were no match for it. 

“You’ll have to press down a little harder, dear,” Aziraphale encourages him, hovering just by his right shoulder. “Elbow grease, as the humans say.” 

“Don’t wanna fuck it up,” Crowley grunts, though he does attempt to press down a little more. The dough bounces back, unimpressed. 

“Dough is quite literally meant to be kneaded, Crowley,” Aziraphale tells him, crossing his arms. “I don’t think caressing it is going to get us anywhere.” 

Crowley stands back from the counter, his flour-covered hands hanging uselessly by his side. “Sorry,” he mutters, lowering his eyes. “You go ahead.” 

Aziraphale makes a little exasperated noise, and before Crowley knows it, his hands are being held in Aziraphale’s and he’d never realized how cold his were in comparison. 

“We’ll do it together,” the angel tells him, pulling him back towards the counter. For one sacred second, Crowley thinks he’s going to get behind him, lean over him. He thinks of Aziraphale’s hands covering his own, thinks of him telling Crowley there isn’t a need to apologise to everything he encounters. Instead, he’s merely escorted Crowley to the counter, placing him where he knows he won’t run. “Here,” he demonstrates. Grasping the dough firmly, he presses down, folding it towards him before digging the heels of his palms in. His hands sink an imprint into the dough, and Crowley watches open-mouthed as he kneads it anyway, turning it towards himself and pressing his body weight into it like he isn’t afraid. 

“Your turn,” Aziraphale gestures for him to stand in his place, and he reaches his uncertain hands forward. Pressing into the dough experimentally, he tries for the pressure he’d seen Aziraphale exert so easily. It takes several attempts to coax his fluttering fingers into behaving themselves, to be able to press himself into the dough with minimal apology. Next to him, he can feel Aziraphale hovering by his elbow, obviously doing his best to exude comforting energy. 

“Is this enough?” Crowley asks after about 10 minutes of kneading. The flour has somehow trailed its way up his wrists anyway, and it coats the ends of his rolled-up sleeves. 

“I suppose we’ll find out in about an hour or two,” Aziraphale hums as he gently deposits the dough back in the bowl, patting it gingerly before covering it with plastic wrap. “Now,” he turns to Crowley, a smile already playing on his lips. “Dinner?” 

“I’m not hungry,” Crowley finds himself saying. It isn’t a lie, exactly. The dolorous moment he’d experienced in the supermarket had left something unnameable hardening in his stomach, and his appetite had quickly made itself scarce. He starts rolling his sleeves down. “Might just head back, really.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s face falls, and his expression is so incredibly open Crowley has to resist the immediate temptation to apologise. “Of course. You need your own time.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Crowley looks up from undoing his sleeves, frowning. The horrible muttony thing in his stomach has reared its head in interest, and he swallows hard. 

“Well, I don’t expect you to spend every day with me is all,” Aziraphale explains, and now it’s his turn to wring his hands. “I just thought it’d be nice for us to do things together.” 

“I like doing things with you,” Crowley blurts it out before the angel can continue, eager to avoid yet another horrific misunderstanding. “ _ I _ like spending time with you. I just don’t know why  _ you _ call  _ me _ .” There, he’s said it. Their eyes meet, and he begs Aziraphale to understand. He’s so clever - he must have some idea of Crowley’s deep-seated shame by now. 

“I- I don’t understand,” Aziraphale concedes. The expression on his face is unbearable. 

“You don’t even like me,” Crowley parrots the old words back to him, the ones that have been sitting under his skin today of all days, and Aziraphale flinches so fully he nearly takes a full step backwards. 

“Surely you don’t believe that,” Aziraphale admonishes him, his hands already reaching out to hold onto Crowley. “Surely you know  _ I _ don’t believe that.” 

“Do I?” He feels like a right bastard. “How would I know that?” 

“Because-” Aziraphale splutters, and now his hands have made their way to Crowley’s, and he interlaces their fingers with such purpose that Crowley freezes. “Because I’ve been inviting you over here to do puzzles, and to organise books and stamps and make bread and anything I can come up with to spend time with you,” Aziraphale’s voice has risen with its own current of urgency, and Crowley has not had a single coherent thought. 

“Why?” 

“Because I like you!” Aziraphale cries out, and Crowley’s hand goes cold. “Because I like you, and I’m sorry, and I’ve been trying to tell you and I thought you knew.” 

“How would I know if you didn’t tell me?” Crowley tries to argue, but there’s something that’s popped in the middle of his chest that makes him want to laugh at the absurdity of the whole thing. 

“I’ve been trying!” Aziraphale insists. “In the same way you’ve been telling me. With the pastries, the car rides, the time you saved my books, the times you’ve saved me,” Aziraphale inhales sharply, now looking directly into Crowley’s eyes. “I thought you knew,” he says again, so quietly Crowley barely hears it. 

“No,” his throat has gone dry. “But that’s why…?” 

“That’s why,” Aziraphale admits, then sighs. He takes one of Crowley’s hands, still covered in flour. 

“Oh,” Crowley says intelligently. He doesn’t move his hand. He’s feeling rather lightheaded, actually. “I need to sit down.” 

Aziraphale looks up at him, horrified. “Are you alright?” 

“M’fine I’m just...processing,” Crowley manages to get the words out, just as Aziraphale pulls him to one of big armchairs in the living room. 

“Please don’t pass out,” Aziraphale tells him. Their hands are still clasped together.    
  
Crowley snorts at this, but it’s half-hearted. “I haven’t been that deprived,” he jokes. 

“You’re sitting in a chair because you had no clue I like you. I would beg to differ,” Aziraphale retorts flatly, but his thumb has begun to move over the knuckles of Crowley’s hand and that only makes it worse. 

His treacherous heart is thudding away in his chest, and he knows it absolutely doesn’t need to be doing that and yet here he is - vital, alive, and Aziraphale has touched him more times in the past 2 weeks than he has in 6000 years. He’s been given the same invitation, over and over again, 

refusing to call it anything but tolerance because the fundamentals didn’t line up. Words like forgiveness, mercy, kindness didn’t belong in his hands. 

“Angel…” he starts, biting hard on his lower lip. “By like. You just mean you don’t mind having me around, right?”

“No?” Aziraphale sounds genuinely offended. “I mean I...fuck.” Crowley’s eyes nearly fall out of his skull at that point, but it’s the next thing Aziraphale says that truly renders him speechless. “I mean I want to kiss you. Only when you’re ready, of course.” 

“Oh,” Crowley says, again. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” Aziraphale asks him, and his eyes are so clouded by confusion that Crowley drums up all his strength to say the words. 

“I want you to,” he admits. To hold the words in his mouth makes him feel like his skin has been flayed raw, and he has to use all his muscles to not flinch, not wrench his way out of the chair and back into his car and his empty apartment where’d he’d certainly sit with his hideousness, all alone.

“Okay,” Aziraphale agrees. There’s a pause for a second, where their eyes meet and neither skid away. “Now?” 

“Now would be best, probably,” Crowley shrugs, “Don’t think I could—” 

Whatever stinging, self-deprecating thing he was about to say is brought to a merciful halt as Aziraphale ever so gently presses his lips to Crowley’s. His lips taste like apples, green and full; this time without condition, and certainly without punishment. That, at least, is one thing Crowley won’t have to fear again.

When Aziraphale does finally pull away, he makes sure to keep Crowley’s hands held in his. Crowley keeps his eyes closed.

“I’m going to check on the bread,” he murmurs. “The bedroom’s down the hall, if you’d like to stay.” 

At this, Crowley’s eyes fly open. And Aziraphale, gentle clever Aziraphale, takes mercy on him. “Of course you can stay.” 

Crowley stumbles his way into the bedroom. The bed itself isn’t too large - queen-sized, not like the sprawling, glaringly empty expanse fit for a king sitting in his own apartment. He falls into it, and breathes in the scent of green apples. 

  
  
  


The next morning, he’s awoken not by the blinding red rays of sunlight against his eyelids, but by soft hands which card their way through his hair. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale reaches out for him. He doesn’t stir. He’d like to hold this moment, just for something to believe in. “Crowley?”

Only now does he open one eye just a fraction, taking in the sight of Aziraphale lit from behind, a halo of soft gold around his fluffy hair. “Mngh,” he says.

“I got breakfast,” Aziraphale offers. His hand is still threading its path through Crowley’s hair, coaxing him out of sleep. “Yours is on the table.” 

“Where y’going?” Crowley mumbles, blinking at him.

“Nowhere,” Aziraphale laughs softly. “Just going to get a change of clothes. I’m just telling you to start eating first, in case you were hungry.” 

“That’ss nice,” Crowley gets the words out, barely, which earns him another laugh from Aziraphale. The angel presses a final kiss to his temple before he disappears from sight, but Crowley can hear him rustling about the bathroom. He allows himself a minute to just lie there; to exist without restraint, and not be ashamed for it. 

  
  


When he does eventually make his way to the dining table, there’s a small white bowl sitting on it, along with a sizable mug of black coffee. It’s only when Crowley’s sat himself down and downed about half the caffeine that he realises that Aziraphale has given him a bowl of Lucky Charms. 


End file.
